Rivulets of pain
by kaishaku
Summary: 'I’ll be hoping that I get used to my life and find it’s beauty beneath the pile of waste.' ~ Draco ponders the meaning of his existence.


****

Rivulets of pain

***

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I mean it, absolutely nothing. Harry Potter and the rest of the team belong to J.K.Rowling and whoever else she decides. No spoilers in this story.

Author's note: This it my first fiction in a long time. And it's probably full of mistakes - grammar isn't my strongest side, especially since I haven't been studying English in years now and it's not my mother language. Draco POV. No pairings for now. But if I continue the fiction and a couple forms it will be slash. C&C are very much welcome ! Thanks for reading.

***

I've been watching the rain for hours. As to why, I'd probably never know. The rain has always been my secret fascination. It's almost like life, my life. My eyes try to follow the tiny raindrops through their journey – from the dark clouded sky to the wet green earth, and wonder what could've made the world so sad to cause that many tears. My mother has once told me, when I was still a little child, that it rains when angels cry. Bitter smile overcomes my features when I remember my mother and how with the time I learned not to trust a single word that comes from her. The cold wind blows into my face and I once again focus on the little world around me. It's freezing. I can see my breath fogging right in front of my face. But I don't feel the cold. Maybe I've gotten used to it. Or maybe my heart is just as cold as it is here. 

A thunder rolls and another one after it with so much anger. There's always anger. And I feel better knowing that not only I, the weak one, can't control this emotion but the nature can't manage it too. I shouldn't feel good about it however, because it means I'm taking pleasure out of someone else's pain and I've been trying hard not to become such a person. But then again, when I can't take pleasure out of my own well being the only thing left to make me happy is other people's pain. Evil of me, you think? Rather not. Egoistical perhaps. Unfortunately I'm not egoistical enough to be satisfied. 

I lay my eyes upon my arms, wrapped around my thin form. They used to seem so pretty, the flawless snow white skin – one of the things I loved most about myself. And that means a lot, since I simply adored everything about me. Not now. They're ugly and so am I. The things I've done with them, the person I turned into, it's all a shame. No wonder people want nothing to do with me. My chest rises and falls hurriedly as I suppress the urge to scream in annoyance. Or to cry in despair because of all this regrets that torture me constantly and which I can't fight. Or maybe both. 

My attention is caught by the sheen of blue, purple and gray coming from the wet glass. So beautiful. The rivulets streaming down its surface are so much alike the tears that are now rolling down my cheeks. But when the little brooks of rain dry they will leave traces of the deep emotions that caused the skies to cry. And it won't be forgotten. Even when the traces are plain dirt, if not even more just because of this, they'll hide so many meanings and memories. And what will my tears leave? I wish when I wake up tomorrow I'll remember about them, about the inner suffering, about everything. But I know I'll forget, I always do. I need some dirt on the outside to remind me of it all. Some trace. 

It's not just this. The look in my eyes has been scaring me. So dull and empty. And there used to be something in the grayness of these orbs. Even if it was merely shade of pride, hate or arrogance it was better than what it is now. Apathy. None of the things I do bring me happiness, but I keep going through the same routine every day, again and again. Just like my mind plays the same thoughts all over, as a broken record. Always. I wish I could change something, but I can't. I don't dare. I can't be sure that when I change I'll be happy. And this way at least I can hope that someday I'll see it in my eyes again, the something that will make me understand. I'll be hoping that I get used to my life and find it's beauty beneath the pile of waste. Hoping to realize something that would make me smile again…

In fact I don't even insist on being happy as long as I feel something. Most of all I want to fall in love. I wouldn't care if the person I'm in love with loves me back. I wouldn't do anything if this person violates me and hurts me, as long as it makes me feel appreciated in some, even twisted way. And after all aren't we all a little bit masochistic, especially when it comes to pain? Isn't pain the very root of the love we all long for? Countless times my fingers have caressed the smooth skin of people I barely know and just equally often my lips have met someone stranger's lips. Not even once these lustful experiences have meant anything but gratification of my sexual hunger. It should mean the world to me.

I lean closer to the window and swing my legs into the nothingness. This is how I see it – I should jump. I see myself flying towards the ground, gracefully, slowly, along with the raindrops. Soft platinum hair loosely fondles my face as I quickly draw near the bottom. Another thunder rolls and the dull thud of my dead body could barely be heard. The revolting crack of broken bones however cannot be missed and I'm sure if it wasn't my body I'd be completely disgusted. I imagine people's reaction…Cries, screams, despair. I never said I don't like drama. But wait…

I groan. Not really aware of my actions I bring my hand closer to my face and my teeth sink into my wrist. I know that's not going to happen. Not that I couldn't jump, it doesn't take an awful lot of bravery. But I'm very much aware nobody's going to mourn over my death. In fact it's more possible that they point at my body and with bright smiles on their faces and say 'Look, we finally got rid of the Slytherin brat'. I wouldn't blame them. 

When I finally notice the metallic taste in my mouth I panic and quickly let go of my wrist. A dozen of little wholes have taken place on my skin, crimson liquid streaming from every one of them. These will scar, I'm sure. But I don't regret it, now I'll have something to remind me of my fears, my insecurities. To remind me of the only thing I can rely on for warmth and trust – myself. And that I am so very lonely. My rivulets of pain. My little trace of dirt. And I'm proud of it all.

***


End file.
